Assassin's Quest (UK)

by Robin Hobb

  ‘An­other time, he would have in­cluded me.’ I paused, know­ing I was wal­low­ing in self-pity, but un­able to stop my­self. ‘I sup­pose they feel they can­not trust me any more. Not that I blame them. Every­one hates me now. For the secrets I kept. For all the ways I failed them.’

  ‘Oh, not every­one hates you,’ the Fool chided gently. ‘Only me, really.’

  My eyes dar­ted to his face. His cyn­ical smile re­as­sured me. ‘Secrets,’ he said, and sighed. ‘Someday I shall write a long philo­soph­ical treat­ise on the power of secrets, when kept or told.’

  ‘Do you have any more brandy?’

  ‘Thirsty again? Do have some more wil­low­bark tea.’ There was acid cour­tesy in his voice now, over­laden with honey. ‘There’s plenty you know. Buck­ets of it. All for you.’

  ‘I think my fever is down a bit,’ I offered humbly.

  He lif­ted a hand to my brow. ‘So it is. For now. But I do not think the healer would ap­prove of you get­ting drunk again.’

  ‘The healer is not here,’ I poin­ted out.

  He arched a pale eye­brow at me. ‘Burrich would be so proud of you.’ But he rose grace­fully and went to the oak cab­inet. He stepped care­fully around Nighteyes sprawled on the hearth in heat-soaked sleep. My eyes trav­elled to the patched win­dow and then back to the Fool. I sup­posed some sort of agree­ment had been worked out between them. Nighteyes was so deeply asleep he was not even dream­ing. His belly was full as well. His paws twitched when I ques­ted to­ward him, so I with­drew. The Fool was put­ting the bottle and two cups on a tray. He seemed too sub­dued.

  ‘I am sorry, you know.’

  ‘So you have told me. Thirty-five times.’

  ‘But I am. I should have trus­ted you and told you about my daugh­ter.’ Noth­ing, not a fever, not an ar­row in my back would keep me from smil­ing when I said that phrase. My daugh­ter. I tried to speak the simple truth. It em­bar­rassed me that it seemed a new ex­per­i­ence. ‘I’ve never seen her, you know. Only with the Skill, any­way. It’s not the same. And I want her to be mine. Mine and Molly’s. Not a child that be­longs to a king­dom, with some vast re­spons­ib­il­ity to grow into. Just a little girl, pick­ing flowers, mak­ing candles with her mother, do­ing …’ I floundered and fin­ished, ‘whatever it is that or­din­ary chil­dren are al­lowed to do. Chade would end that. The mo­ment that any­one points to her and says, “There, she could be the Farseer heir,” she’s at risk. She’d have to be guarded and taught to fear, to weigh every word and con­sider every ac­tion. Why should she? She isn’t truly a royal heir. Only a bas­tard’s bas­tard.’ I said those harsh words with dif­fi­culty, and vowed never to let any­one say them to her face. ‘Why should she be put in such danger? It would be one thing if she were born in a palace and had a hun­dred sol­diers to guard her. But she has only Molly and Burrich.’

  ‘Burrich is with them? If Chade chose Burrich, it is be­cause he thinks him the equal of a hun­dred guards. But far more dis­creet,’ the Fool ob­served. Did he know how that would wrench me? He brought the cups and the brandy and poured for me. I man­aged to pick up my own cup. ‘To a daugh­ter. Yours and Molly’s,’ he offered and we drank. The brandy burned clean in my throat.

  ‘So,’ I man­aged. ‘Chade knew all along and sent Burrich to guard her. Even be­fore I knew, they knew.’ Why did I feel they had stolen some­thing from me?

  ‘I sus­pect so, but I am not cer­tain.’ The Fool paused, as if won­der­ing at the wis­dom of telling me. Then I saw him dis­card the re­serve. ‘I’ve been put­ting pieces to­gether, count­ing back the time. I think Pa­tience sus­pec­ted. I think that’s why she star­ted send­ing Molly to take care of Burrich when his leg was in­jured. He didn’t need that much care, and he knew it as well as Pa­tience did. But Burrich is a good ear, mostly be­cause he talks so little him­self. Molly would need someone to talk to, per­haps someone that had once kept a bas­tard him­self. That day we were all up in his room … you had sent me there, to see what he could do for my shoulder? The day you locked Regal out of Shrewd’s rooms to pro­tect him …’ for a mo­ment he seemed caught in that memory. Then he re­covered. ‘When I came up the stairs to Burrich’s loft I heard them ar­guing. Well, Molly ar­guing, and Burrich be­ing si­lent, which is his strongest way to ar­gue. So, I eaves­dropped,’ he ad­mit­ted frankly. ‘But I didn’t hear much. She was in­sist­ing he could get some par­tic­u­lar herb for her. He wouldn’t. Fi­nally, he prom­ised her he would tell no one, and bade her to think well and do what she wished to do, not what she thought was wisest. Then they said no more, so I went in. She ex­cused her­self and de­par­ted. Later, you came and said she had left you.’ He paused. ‘Ac­tu­ally, look­ing back, I was as dull-wit­ted as you, not to have worked it out just from that.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I told him drily.

  ‘You’re wel­come. Though I will ad­mit we all had much on our minds that day.’

  ‘I’d give any­thing to be able to go back in time and tell her that our child would be the most im­port­ant thing in the world for me. More im­port­ant than king or coun­try.’

  ‘Ah. So you would have left Buck­keep that day, to fol­low her and pro­tect her.’ The Fool quirked an eye­brow at me.

  After a time, I said, ‘I couldn’t.’ The words choked me and I washed them down with brandy.

  ‘I know you couldn’t have. I un­der­stand. You see, no one can avoid fate. Not as long as we are trapped in time’s har­ness, any­way. And,’ he said more softly, ‘no child can avoid the fu­ture that fate de­crees. Not a fool, not a bas­tard. Not a bas­tard’s daugh­ter.’

  A shiver walked up my spine. Des­pite all my dis­be­lief, I feared. ‘Are you say­ing that you know some­thing of her fu­ture?’

  He sighed and nod­ded. Then he smiled and shook his head. ‘That is how it is, for me. I know some­thing of a Farseer’s heir. If that heir is she, then doubt­less, years from now, I shall read some an­cient proph­ecy and say, ah, yes, there it is, it was fore­told how it would come to be. No one truly un­der­stands a proph­ecy un­til it comes true. It’s rather like a horse­shoe. The smithy shows you a bit of iron stock and you say, it will never fit. But after it’s been through the fire and hammered and filed, there it is, fit­ting per­fectly to your horse’s hoof as it would never fit any other.’

  ‘It sounds as if you are say­ing proph­ets shape their proph­ecies to be true after the fact.’

  He cocked his head. ‘And a good prophet, like a good smith, shows you that it fits per­fectly.’ He took the empty glass from my hand. ‘You should be sleep­ing, you know. To­mor­row the healer is go­ing to draw the ar­row­head out. You will need your strength.’

  I nod­ded, and sud­denly found my eyes were heavy.

  Chade gripped my wrists and pulled down firmly. My chest and cheek pressed against the hard wooden bench. The Fool straddled my legs and pinned my hips down with his lean­ing weight. Even Kettle had her hands on my bare shoulders, press­ing me down on the un­yield­ing bench. I felt like a hog trussed for slaughter. Starling stood by with lint bandaging and a basin of hot wa­ter. As Chade drew my hands down tight, I felt as if my whole body might split open at the rot­ten wound in my back. The healer squat­ted be­side me. I caught a glimpse of the pin­cers she held. Black iron. Prob­ably bor­rowed from the black­smith’s shed.

  ‘Ready?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ I grunted. They ig­nored me. It wasn’t me she was talk­ing to. All morn­ing she had worked on me as if I were a broken toy, prod­ding and press­ing the foul flu­ids of in­fec­tion from my back while I squirmed and muttered curses. All had ig­nored my im­prec­a­tions, save the Fool, who had offered im­prove­ments on them. He was very much him­self again. He had per­suaded Nighteyes to go out­side. I could sense the wolf prowl­ing about the door. I had tried to con­vey to him what was to be done. I’d pulled enough quills from him in our time to­gether that he ha
d some idea of ne­ces­sary pain. He still shared my dread.

  ‘Go ahead,’ Chade told the healer. His head was close to mine, his beard scratch­ing my shaven cheek. ‘Steady my boy,’ he breathed into my ear. The cold jaws of the pin­cers pressed against my in­flamed flesh.

  ‘Don’t pant. Hold still,’ the healer told me severely. I tried. It felt as if she were plunging them into my back seek­ing for a grip. After an etern­ity of prob­ing, the healer said, ‘Hold him.’ I felt the jaws of the pin­cers clench. She pulled, rip­ping my spine up and out of my body.

  Or so it felt. I re­call that first grat­ing of metal head against bone, and all my res­ol­u­tions not to scream were for­got­ten. I roared out my pain and my con­scious­ness to­gether. I tumbled again into that vague place that neither sleep nor wake­ful­ness could reach. My fe­ver­ish days had made it en­tirely too fa­mil­iar to me.

  Skill-river. I was in it and it was in me. Only a step away, it had al­ways been only a step away. Sur­cease from pain and loneli­ness. Swift and sweet. I was tat­ter­ing away in it, com­ing un­done like a piece of knit­ting comes un­rav­elled when the right thread is tugged. All my pain was com­ing un­done as well. No. Ver­ity for­bade it firmly. Back you go, Fitz. As if he shooed a small child away from the fire. I went.

  Like a diver sur­fa­cing, I came back to the hard bench and voices over me. The light seemed dim. Someone ex­claimed about blood and called for a cloth full of snow. I felt it pressed to my back while a sop­ping red rag was tossed to the Fool’s rug. The stain spread out on the wool and I flowed with it. I was float­ing and the room was full of black specks. The healer was busy by the fire. She drew an­other smith’s tool from the flames. It glowed and she turned to look at me. ‘Wait!’ I cried in hor­ror and half reared up off the bench, only to have Chade catch me by the shoulders.

  ‘It has to be done,’ he told me harshly and held me in a grip of iron as the healer came near. At first I felt only pres­sure as she held a hot brand to my back. I smelled the burn­ing of my own flesh and thought I did not care, un­til a spasm of pain jerked me more sharply than a hang­man’s noose. The black rose up to drag me down. ‘Hung over wa­ter and burned!’ I cried out in des­pair. A wolf whined.

  Rising. Com­ing up, nearer and nearer the light. The dive had been deep, the wa­ters warm and full of dreams. I tasted the edge of con­scious­ness, took a breath of wake­ful­ness.

  Chade. ‘… but surely you could have told me, at least, that he was alive and had come to you. Eda and El in a knot, Fool, how of­ten have I trus­ted you with my closest coun­sels?’

  ‘Al­most as of­ten as you have not,’ the Fool replied tartly. ‘Fitz asked me to keep his pres­ence here a secret. And it was, un­til that min­strel in­terfered. What would it have hurt if he had been left alone to rest com­pletely be­fore that ar­row came out? You’ve listened to his rav­ings. Do they sound to you like a man at peace with him­self?’

  Chade sighed. ‘Still. You could have told me. You know what it would have meant to me, to know he was alive.’

  ‘You know what it would have meant to me, to know there was a Farseer heir,’ the Fool re­tor­ted.

  ‘I told you as soon as I told the Queen!’

  ‘Yes, but how long had you known she ex­is­ted? Since you sent Burrich to keep watch over Molly? You knew Molly car­ried his child when last you came to visit, yet you said noth­ing.’

  Chade took a sharp breath, then cau­tioned. ‘Those are names I’d as soon you did not speak, not even here. Not even to the Queen have I given those names. You must un­der­stand, Fool. The more folk who know, the greater the risk to the child. I’d never have re­vealed her ex­ist­ence, save that the Queen’s child died and we be­lieved Ver­ity dead.’

  ‘Save your hope of keep­ing secrets. A min­strel knows Molly’s name; min­strels keep no secrets.’ His dis­like of Starling glittered in his voice. In a colder tone, he ad­ded, ‘So what did you really plan to do, Chade? Pass off Fitz’s daugh­ter as Ver­ity’s? Steal her from Molly and give her to the Queen, to raise as her own?’ The Fool’s voice had gone deadly soft.

  ‘I … the times are hard and the need so great … but … not steal her, no. Burrich would un­der­stand, and I think he could make the girl un­der­stand. Be­sides. What can she of­fer the child? A pen­ni­less candle­maker, bereft of her trade … how can she care for her? The child de­serves bet­ter. As does the mother, truly, and I would do my best to see she was provided for, also. But the baby can­not be left with her. Think, Fool. Once oth­ers knew the babe was of Farseer lin­eage she could only be safe on the throne, or in line for it. The wo­man listens to Burrich. He could make her see that.’

  ‘I’m not so sure you could make Burrich see that. He gave one child up to royal duty. He may not feel it’s a wise choice a second time.’

  ‘Some­times all the choices are poor ones, Fool, and still a man must choose.’

  I think I made some small sound, for they both came to me quickly. ‘Boy?’ Chade de­man­ded anxiously. ‘Boy, are you awake?’

  I de­cided I was. I opened one eye a crack. Night. Light from the hearth and a few candles. Chade and the Fool and a bottle of brandy. And me. My back felt no bet­ter. My fever felt no less. Be­fore I could even try to ask, the Fool held a cup to my lips. Dam­nable wil­low­bark tea. I was so thirsty, I drank it all. The next cup he offered was meat broth, won­der­fully salty. ‘I’m so thirsty,’ I man­aged to say when I’d fin­ished it. My mouth felt sticky with thirst, thick with it.

  ‘You’ve lost a lot of blood,’ Chade ex­plained need­lessly.

  ‘Do you want more broth?’ the Fool asked.

  I man­aged the ti­ni­est nod. The Fool took the cup and went to the hearth. Chade leaned close and whispered, strangely ur­gent, ‘Fitz. Tell me one thing. Do you hate me, boy?’

  For a mo­ment, I didn’t know. But the thought of hat­ing Chade meant too great a loss to me. Too few folk in the world cared for me. I could not hate even one of them. I shook my head a tiny bit. ‘But,’ I said slowly, care­fully form­ing the thick words, ‘don’t take my child.’

  ‘Do not fear,’ he told me gently. His old hand smoothed my hair back from my face. ‘If Ver­ity’s alive, there will be no need of it. For the time be­ing, she is safest where she is. And if King Ver­ity re­turns and as­sumes his throne, he and Kettricken will get chil­dren of their own.’

  ‘Prom­ise?’ I begged.

  He met my eyes. The Fool brought the broth to me, and Chade stepped aside to make room for him. This cup was warmer. It was like life it­self flow­ing back into me. When it was gone, I could speak more strongly. ‘Chade,’ I said. He had walked over to the hearth and was star­ing into it. He turned back to me when I spoke.

  ‘You did not prom­ise,’ I re­minded him.

  ‘No,’ he agreed gravely. ‘I did not prom­ise. Times are too un­cer­tain for that prom­ise.’

  For a long time I just looked at him. After a time, he gave his head a tiny shake and looked aside. He could not meet my eyes. But he offered me no lies. So it was up to me.

  ‘You can have me,’ I told him quietly. ‘And I will do my best to bring Ver­ity back, and do all I can to re­store to him his throne. You can have my death, if that is what it takes. More than that, you can have my life, Chade. But not my child’s. Not my daugh­ter’s.’

  He met my eyes and nod­ded slowly.

  Re­cov­ery was a slow and pain­ful busi­ness. It seemed to me that I should have rel­ished each day in a soft bed, each mouth­ful of food, each mo­ment of safe sleep. But it was not so. The frost­bit­ten skin on my fin­gers and toes peeled and snagged on everything, and the new skin be­neath was hor­ribly tender. Every day the healer came to poke at me. She in­sis­ted that the wound on my back must be kept open and drain­ing. I grew weary of the foul-smelling band­ages she took away, and wear­ier still of her pick­ing at my wound to see that it did not close too soon. She re­minded me
of a crow on a dy­ing an­imal, and when I tact­lessly told her so one day, she laughed at me.

  After a few days, I was mov­ing about again, but never care­lessly. Every step, every reach of a hand was a cau­tious thing. I learned to keep my el­bows snug to my sides to de­crease the pull of muscles in my back, learned to walk as if I bal­anced a bas­ket of eggs on my head. Even so, I wear­ied quickly, and too strenu­ous a stroll might bring the fever back at night. I went daily to the baths and though soak­ing in the hot wa­ter eased my body, I could not be there even a mo­ment without re­call­ing that here was where Regal sought to drown me, and there was where I had seen Burrich clubbed to the ground. Come to me, come to me, would be­gin the siren call in my head then, and my mind would soon be full of thoughts and won­der­ings about Ver­ity. It was not con­du­cive to a peace­ful spirit. In­stead I would find my­self plan­ning every de­tail of my next jour­ney. I made a men­tal list of the equip­ment I must beg from Kettricken and de­bated long and hard over tak­ing a rid­ing an­imal. In the end I de­cided against it. There was no graz­ing for one; my ca­pa­city for un­think­ing cruelty was gone. I would not take a horse or pony simply to have it die. I knew, too, that soon I must ask leave to search the lib­rar­ies to see if there might be found a pre­cursor to Ver­ity’s map. I dreaded seek­ing out Kettricken for she had not summoned me at all.

  Every day I re­minded my­self of these things, and every day I put it off one more day. As of yet, I still could not walk the length of Jhaampe without stop­ping to rest. Con­scien­tiously, I began to force my­self to eat more and to push the lim­its of my strength. Of­ten the Fool joined me on my strength­en­ing walks. I knew he hated the cold, but I wel­comed his si­lent com­pan­ion­ship too much to sug­gest he stay warm within. He took me once to see Sooty, and that pla­cid beast wel­comed me with such pleas­ure that I re­turned every day there­after. Her belly was swell­ing with Ruddy’s foal; she’d drop early in spring. She seemed healthy enough, but I fret­ted over her age. I took an amaz­ing amount of com­fort from the old mare’s gentle pres­ence. It pulled at my in­jury to lift my arms to groom her, but I did any­way, and Ruddy as well. The spir­ited young horse needed more hand­ling than he was get­ting. I did my best with him, and missed Burrich every mo­ment of it.